The Kingmaker

“It’s actually closer to seventy percent,” I offer with a wide, proud smile.

“What do you have against us guys?” he asks, his humor lined with invisible barbs.

“As we discuss in our book Louder, Kimba and I decided we wanted to amplify muted voices—wanted to position in places of power those most concerned about marginalized groups, especially women, people of color, LGBTQIA, and those with disabilities.”

“Seems like we add letters every day for being gay,” Bryce says with a caustic laugh.

“Try to keep up,” Kimba says. “It’s the least we can do.”

“Yes, well, you’re running a candidate now who hits on several categories,” he says. “Susan Bowden, a gay woman, married with three children. How’s the Denver race going?”

If he’s sniffing around a story, we can’t afford to give anything away, not with Kristin barely contained.

“Susan is an exceptional leader.” My smile comes naturally. “We expect big things from her—things that will benefit people who need better representation, especially women seeking equal pay.”

“I keep hearing about women not making as much,” Bryce says with a shrug. “But you ladies seem to be doing really well, and a lot of other women, too.”

“We command the same rates as our peers,” Kimba replies. “Every woman is not in a position to demand. Those are the ones we fight for.”

“Yes, well,” Bryce continues. “You mentioned your book, Louder. In it, you’re very critical of some of this nation’s forefathers, Ms. Hunter. Men widely recognized as heroes.”

“Recognizing their contributions without exposing their shortcomings, the discrepancies between rhetoric of freedom and systemic mistreatment and exclusion of marginalized groups, is a disservice,” I say, trying to check my irritation. “As for them being heroes, how could I consider Andrew Jackson, a president who ratified the death of my ancestors, a hero? A man who sent them on the Trail of Tears? Is he my hero? The men who stripped us of our heritage, stole our language, forbade our customs—they aren’t my heroes. My ancestors, the people who resisted them, those are heroes to me.”

“Forgive me.” Bryce leans forward, his eyes gleaming, obviously relishing the rise he gets out of me. “But your sentiments don’t sound very patriotic.”

“Dissent is the highest form of patriotism,” I quote. “I love this country too much to settle for the lies written in our history books. I love the constitution too much not to hold the men who wrote it accountable for the truth of its principles.”

“Some would call your perspective radical.”

“Some would be right,” I say with my sweetest smile. “I’ll continue loving this country on one hand and exposing the government’s kleptocratic practices on the other.”

“What are we supposed to do with that information, Ms. Hunter?” Bryce asks. “Feel guilty for something our ancestors did? Doesn’t this line of discussion simply perpetuate the divisiveness that’s tearing our country apart? How is this productive?”

“Not only is it productive, it’s essential. Most Americans don’t really know the full truth of what happened to Native p

eople because our history books don’t tell it. We have to know what happened if we are to ensure it never happens again. And it’s not just what occurred in the past, but what’s still happening. We’re still living with it, and there are things that can be done now. This is not about blaming for the past. It’s about us all being responsible for the future.”

Bryce blinks at me, apparently at the end of his combative line of questioning, and turns his attention to Kimba. The light of battle in her eyes tells him he doesn’t want any of that, and he offers a softer version of the thrust and parry for the next few minutes, until we break and add Owen Cade to the set.

“You’re doing great, girls,” Bryce says, patting Kimba’s hand.

“We’re not your girls,” I say mildly. “We’re your guests, and thanks for having us.”

He watches me for an extra few seconds, picking through what is admittedly backhanded appreciation. “Thanks for coming at the last minute,” he finally replies.

I want to ask why the last minute. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in our book, our causes or us in general, but I’m distracted by Owen Cade taking the seat next to me. They’re checking his mic, which gives me a chance to check him.

I’ve seen him before, of course. He’s a California senator, but our paths have crossed very little. Maybe that was intentional on my part. I’ve never allowed myself to think too much about it. About him. Or about his brother.

He couldn’t be more unlike Maxim. Where Maxim is dark-haired and green-eyed like his father, Owen looks very much like his mother, fair with blue eyes. Truly and literally the golden boy of politics. He reaches across the aisle, manages to remain civil in the most vitriolic political climate, and at least, as far as I’ve heard, never cheats on his wife.

“Ladies,” he says to Kimba and me once he’s settled. “Glad to be on with you today. I don’t think we’ve ever actually met, but I know of your father and grandfather, of course, Ms. Allen. Their contribution to the civil rights movement is invaluable. So sorry for your family’s loss.”

Kimba’s grandfather died years before, but her father passed away from a heart attack just a few months ago. Pain tweaks her expression for a second, but she clears it and pulls the professional mask in place before most would notice. “Thank you, Senator Cade,” she replies.

“Please,” he says. “Call me Owen.”

She won’t. Neither will I.